


Two Can Keep A Secret (If One of Them is Dead)

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Coercion, Dark Magic, Deceased Bellatrix, Deceased Narcissa, Descent into Madness, F/M, Grief, Horror, M/M, Mild References to Past BDSM, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mourning, Necromancy, Obsession, Sex Dolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: It’s a long, painstaking process, trying to recreate the perfect wife.After an attack on the Manor leaves Narcissa dead, a grieving Lucius Malfoy uses dark magic to recreate her exact image and likeness.





	Two Can Keep A Secret (If One of Them is Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of a very random idea and I'm still not sure quite how it came out, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. I think all warnings are there but there are also a couple of mild instances which might feel a little like domestic violence (although there are no suggestions of past domestic violence at all) so proceed cautiously if that's a trigger.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who reads this and to heyitsamorette for cheering me on as I was writing this. I'm so excited about this fest and hope you enjoy my offering. This was a lot of fun to write. Title is from The Pierces song 'Secret'

Rodolphus is on his knees, hair dark and lank as he sucks greedily at Lucius. The sounds he makes and the sight of him pawing at Lucius with thin, bony fingers, head bouncing over his cock, is almost enough to put Lucius off entirely. He closes his eyes and grimaces, fisting a hand in Lestrange’s hair and pretending it’s hers.

“ _Yes_ ,” he murmurs. That’s already better. Her face swims before his eyes and it’s her laughter he can hear. The scent of primrose fills the air and his fingers tighten in her hair. Blonde, not dark. Silken, not coarse. She would never be on her knees before him like this, of course. Narcissa would put Lucius on his knees instead, allowing him the distinct pleasure of tasting her as he lapped and licked and greedily drank his fill. He can taste her now, on his mouth. The heady scent of her arousal, the heat of knowing _I have pleased her_.

With a grunt of pleasure, Lucius comes at the reminder, hips jerking upwards and the sound of Rodolphus coughing wrenching him from his more pleasant thoughts.

“You’ll do it, Lucius?” Lestrange’s voice is raspy and in the aftermath he’s as repulsive to Lucius as he’s ever been. Scrawny and simpering, hands folded in his lap as he watches Lucius with suspicious eyes. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and his faces twists with displeasure as if it’s _Lucius_ that’s the vile, unattractive one. Lucius glares at Rodolphus and zips himself up, standing and looking out of the window. The grounds of the Manor are brilliant white with frost from an unusually crisp morning. Even that reminds him of her. 

“I keep my word, _brother_ ,” Lucius replies with a sneer. His lip curls upwards, the chill of the late winter biting as he moves closer to the vast windows. He really should think about heating the Manor, but he finds he likes the iciness. The cold makes him think of ghosts, helps him to imagine her beside him at all times.

“I’ve been waiting for long enough. If Bella was still alive she—”

“If Bellatrix was alive, you would have no need of my services.” Lucius glances at Rodolphus. His cheeks are flushed red, his eyes flashing with anger. He’s just bone and angles, his eyes dark with shadows. Lucius would almost pity him, if he cared about Lestrange’s state of mind. He might be as unattractive to Lucius as anyone’s ever been, but he’s a warm mouth. A body of flesh, blood and bone. He can at least serve a purpose in enabling the more carnal versions of Lucius’ fantasies to find the pulse of a beating heart. “I would like to fuck you, next time.” He keeps his voice dispassionate. “Then you can have what’s yours.”

Rodolphus’s throat works, his lips pressed in a thin line. Eventually he nods. “Very well. If you can _promise_ —”

“I promise.” Lucius gestures to the Floo and turns back to the window. He doesn’t know if Rodolphus is hard or as flaccid as his general demeanour. He also doesn’t care. That’s not the way this arrangement works. The thought that there might be mutual pleasure involved makes Lucius nauseous. “You know the way out.”

The Floo pops and Lucius takes a breath. He turns to where she sits, watching him with her cool smile.

“You understand I have needs, Narcissa?”

She doesn’t answer and her silence rests on his shoulders like the heavy weight of judgment.

*

It’s a long, painstaking process, trying to recreate the perfect wife.

It started when Lucius discovered crude Muggle sex dolls. The comic inflatables left him cold, but as he began to investigate, he found more exquisite artistry in the dolls designed to look almost human. He lost himself in endless images where perfectly precise features blurred the lines between living and fake. A kernel of excitement wormed within him, feeding greedily on his grief. He found himself pulled him back to those dolls again, and again. It wasn't long before the possibility they offered consumed him and he feverishly researched spells to help him find the right kind of magic to bring Narcissa back to life again.

“Are you sure you’re quite well, father?” Draco stands in the living room, his eyes flicking around as if looking for something amiss. “It’s unlike you to miss an important Ministry function.”

“I made an error.” Lucius meets Draco’s suspicious gaze without flinching. “I had the wrong date in my diary.”

“Of course,” Draco murmurs. He sounds as though he doesn’t believe it. He tightens his scarf, a garish burgundy that reminds Lucius of Gryffindors and slashed throats. Draco picks up his suitcase, smart leather and monogrammed. “I plan to visit, and often. You must come and see me too. Boston in the Autumn is particularly lovely.”

“I believe they call it _fall_.” Lucius resists the urge to roll his eyes, his voice thick with disdain. He has no intention of going to America. He hasn’t left the Manor for longer than a few hours since the night the vigilantes decided to seek their bloody vengeance. Homes are too vulnerable to invasion and Lucius knows the kind of magic he’s dabbling in would see him thrown back into Azkaban. The thought someone might violate his space again—might take what’s his—makes his heart clench and furious waves of anger crash over him.

“Father—” Draco stops. He presses his lips into a tight line and his eyes flash as he contemplates Lucius. “I miss her too.”

A peculiar giddiness almost makes Lucius laugh, the sordid humour of his secret twisting and dancing inside him. Perhaps one day he can show Draco how Lucius managed to love his mother back to life, and then his son can be proud of him again. The war stole that, too. The look in Draco’s eyes when he sought his father’s approval. Now he looks to other men for approval. The men he takes to bed, if the reports are to believed. Lucius chooses not to talk about that.

“I know, son.” Lucius places his hand on Draco’s shoulder and squeezes. “Travel safely and send an Owl when you arrive.”

“I will.” Draco’s face contorts and then he launches himself into Lucius’ arms, his suitcase tumbling to the floor. Lucius wraps his arms tightly around Draco and breathes in the warmth of his scent, feels the pulse of his heart.

His hair is downy and soft and so like Narcissa’s it makes Lucius want to weep but _boys don’t cry_ , he reminds himself. A lesson he instilled in his son on countless occasions. Lucius Malfoy is a proud man, and even in grief, he keeps himself dignified, as a man of his wealth and power should.

“Hush.” Lucius kisses Draco’s forehead and for a moment imagines it might be her. He pushes him back and turns to his desk rearranging his careful stack of papers. “I'll be in touch.”

“Yes, Father.” After another pause, Draco leaves and Lucius settles at his desk, watching the empty Floo.

In Draco's absence it's as if, once again, the last living traces of Narcissa have spilled like blood from the Manor walls, leaving Lucius with only shadows, and memories.

*

If Lucius crafted Narcissa out of love, he crafts Bellatrix out of hatred. He pours his self-loathing into every place that flesh meets plastic, lets his past sins wash over him as he puts light behind her eyes, molding every elegant line of her limbs with a brutal intensity. He cares nothing for Bella, only that she was Cissy’s. He lets her madness gather him close, the sing-song lullabies, the sharp fierceness of her words, the way her eyes shone when she looked at the Dark Lord. Lucius wonders if Rodolphus wants this for that reason—if the only way he could ever get Bellatrix to look at him with the same kind of intensity is if he has Lucius Malfoy rebuild her broken bones out of plastic, ceramic and the darkest of spells.

Bellatrix never loved Rodolphus, of that, Lucius is sure. He glances up, meeting Narcissa's eyes as she watches him work. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, her pearls glistening around her neck. She’s as beautiful as she’s ever been.

“I think Rodolphus is a blithering idiot,” Lucius mutters. “Don’t you agree?”

Narcissa continues to smile and the half-finished Bellatrix in his hands twitches and jerks as he continues his work.

*

“This is our secret,” Lucius whispers. The night had come upon them sooner than expected and with tender hands, Lucius lifted Narcissa from her seat and took her to bed. It reminded him of carrying her over the threshold—of the press of his ear against her swollen belly as Draco kicked and moved beneath her skin. “You promise me, darling?”

He brushes her hair from her forehead as she watches him, warm-eyed and smiling. She’s so incredibly beautiful, his Cissa. A force to be reckoned with. She and Draco are the only things Lucius Malfoy has ever truly loved.

“Nobody can know,” he repeats. “They would put me in prison for some of the magic I’ve used to bring you to this point. They would accuse me of resurrecting Death Eaters—of trying to build a new army for the cause.”

 _The cause_. The very thought of it leaves a bitter taste now, settling like bile in his throat and bringing him back to the darkest moments during that unusually hot spring. His stomach twists at the memory of the stench of rotten flesh and the crunch of snake skin beneath his feet. The screams of the damned and the growling of monsters deep in the belly of the Manor sing their woeful ballads when Lucius tries to sleep. On occasion it's as though the cellars are still occupied, a broken bottle of red wine ebbing like blood over dark stone. The tormented captives were a means for certain Death Eaters to indulge their gleeful pleasure. Lucius and Narcissa rarely participated in any of that, unless they were under the watchful eye of the Dark Lord who had long questioned their loyalty to him. Lucius never liked to sully himself in something as banal as playing with Muggles like toys. He hates to get his hands dirty, gets no thrill from seeing someone twist in agony. He likes things crisp and clean. A simple Killing Curse has always served him well. 

Lucius no longer cares about the cause. He can barely summon up the strength to put on his finest clothing to attend the meetings that would help him ingratiate himself with Ministry officials. He knows few trust him, let alone respect him, and he doesn’t believe fawning at Potter’s self-righteous boots is any kind of penance. He cares about Narcissa. About cocooning himself away with her and distracting himself from the blood he can’t quite bleach off the Manor walls. The only apologies he wants to make are to her, for leaving her alone, for being busy with things that pulled him out of the Manor and left her vulnerable to attack.

“You’re so beautiful.” His voice is rough and he leans in to kiss her—her perfectly painted mouth yielding a little to his. It’s colder than it should be, but if he kisses her for long enough it’s as though her lips warm and become responsive. “My beautiful wife.”

He kisses her neck, the taste finally losing its plasticky edge and carrying the hint of the familiar flavour of her skin against his tongue. He lets his hands roam indecently over the parts of her that always brought him such pleasure, but her submissiveness is all wrong. Narcissa was never submissive, never placid and calm in bed. She scratched and loved and fucked with abandon, binding Lucius with leather and sliding the tantalising tip of her crop over his skin. 

Nothing is the same. The slickness created by magic lacks the heat and tanginess of the warm place between her legs, her limbs splay stiffly rather than moving against his own. Most of all, it’s the laughter he misses. The way her voice would slide over his skin and set his nerve endings alight as he reached a forceful climax, trembling and eager beneath her. Still, he worships her and hopes that he might love her enough to bring her back to him—that his memory and magic might be powerful enough to make her even a shadow of the person she once was when she danced with him as only she could as the night whispered around them.

When Lucius sleeps, he dreams he wakes just before dawn to Narcissa watching him. 

She blinks and he curls closer into her arms, imagining he can hear the _thud, thud_ of a still beating heart.

*

“I need you to collect your _wife_.” The fire hisses and spits as Lucius speaks to Rodolphus through the flames. “I don’t enjoy having her here, I need time on my own.” _We_ need time on our own, Lucius thinks, but doesn’t say as much out loud. He doesn’t want Rodolphus to think Lucius is losing his mind.

“It’s going to be a week at least.” Rodolphus sounds disconnected from himself, his voice cracking with the logs on the fire. “You know the Ministry is looking for any opportunity—”

“I don’t care. Come as soon as you can.” 

With a snarl, Lucius ends the call. _Useless_. Rodolphus is useless. The sex was a messy, repulsive reminder that Rodulphus is everything Lucius has come to hate. Fucking was a bad idea, largely because it required Lestrange to be unclothed out of necessity. It meant Lucius could see the hardness of his arousal, the dark hairs on his back and the grunt and pulse of pleasure as Rodolphus reached the climax Lucius never intended him to have. The idea that Rodolphus might take any pleasure from their encounters angered Lucius and he took three brandies after the visit and apologised to Narcissa, reminding her of his love over, and over.

Now, Lucius wants to be rid of Lestrange and the extraordinarily lifelike doll that taunts his every movement, judging him for his betrayal at the end of the war. Just like Bellatrix, the doll has a wild shock of dark hair and a calculating smile and he swears she never stays where he leaves her. There’s always something amiss. A curl of her fingers, the way she takes on new positions without Lucius moving her. Unlike his darling Cissy, Bellatrix offers Lucius no comfort. She reminds him of darker times, darker things and the magic he wove into her body thrums with torment and rage. 

Lucius glances over his shoulder and shudders at the mean glint in her eyes. 

That night, Lucius wakes to the sound of laughter.

He closes his bedroom door firmly, takes Narcissa in his arms and tells himself _it’s only a dream_.

*

At times, Lucius wonders if Narcissa would judge him for making her younger than she was when she died. He hopes she understands he wanted to capture her at her very best—to be taken back to those years before the second war, when they were first married and threw parties that were the toast of the town.

He tells her one night, two glasses of champagne bubbling in their hands. Hers, still full. Lucius, half-way through the bottle.

“I wanted to remember a better time.” He licks his lips and watches her closely, unable to bear the way her silence sits between them. “Before the war. You understand, Cissa?” He takes another gulp of his champagne and moves onto his knees, between her legs. He slips his hand under her skirt and rests it on her thigh. “You were always beautiful to me. I just want to pretend the rest never happened.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way her sunny smile slips into a twist of displeasure, her eyes colder than before.

He sighs and leaves her be, opening his book to look for new spells.

Tomorrow, he’s going to try to make her talk.

*

The stench of his own sweat reminds Lucius that he hasn’t stopped working on his spells for days. He’s hardly eaten, surviving instead on shots of brandy and a few dry crackers with cheese that has seen better days.

Countless hours after he began, Lucius flings his papers across his desk and drops his head into his hands. “It’s no good. No good.”

He approaches the comfortable seat he placed Narcissa in for the beginning of his trials and tips her chin back to look at her carefully. “I’ve neglected you,” he whispers. Her cheeks are missing some of their usual vibrancy and once again, she’s more doll than flesh. He swallows back his exhaustion and carefully casts spells over her until he can sense a little lustre coming back. He drops to his knees and rests his cheek against her legs. 

“You smell like my Cissa again.” He rubs his cheek against her leg, closing his eyes hard enough to imagine the answering warmth of living flesh against his face. If he lets himself doze for a moment he can almost feel the gentle pull of his hair, the touch of her elegant fingers against his scalp.

“I’ve let myself go,” he murmurs. His voice is rough with exhaustion and he leans into her touch, knowing his hair is greasy and matted. “You shouldn’t have to touch me like this.”

If she hears him, Narcissa doesn’t listen and Lucius falls asleep on the cold, stone floor, her fingers sliding through his hair.

*

Later that evening Lucius showers and rubs shampoo through his hair in an effort to look a little less slovenly. His mind is full of books and spells, each one more intricate than the last. The more he slides into necromancy the more he swears the clawed hands of the dead grip and twist at his innards, pulling him down into the darkness of their graves.

He shudders and tips his head back, the hot slice of the water reminding him he’s alive. He’s still alive and he will take time away from his books and his magic. He only needs a little longer, he’s on the cusp of something, but he cannot afford to come so close to losing himself in the process.

Lucius congratulates himself for being strong enough to resist the pull of dark magic and towels himself dry. He wraps a towel around his waist and returns to the bedroom where Narcissa is waiting, dressed in her finest nightgown. He frowns as he runs his eyes over her. Something is wrong. He glances at the bedside table where Narcissa’s wand sits next to the pearls Lucius carefully removed as he prepared her for bed. 

“How curious.” Lucius takes the wand in his hand, closes his eyes and murmurs a soft spell which leaves his mouth tasting like Narcissa’s magic. He’s sure he left the wand safely in its velvet box, together with other items he takes out on occasion when he wants to feel Narcissa closer to him than ever. He used the wand at times to craft parts of her body, to weave some of the spells that required he and his wife be intimately in tune with one another. He felt they might have more purchase, that way. As if Narcissa was helping him bring her back to life. “I could have sworn—”

Lucius trails off and shakes himself. He’s had a long day—several long days that merged into one with little sleep. It’s quite possible in his frantic search for spells to give Narcissa a voice he simply forgot he had removed her wand from his case.

Quite possible.

*

The air is thick with the promise of thunder when Lucius wakes. His sleep was restless, broken by the creaking of the house and dreams saturated with memories of the war. He flexes his wrists, the cold metal of Azkaban’s shackles still heavy on them. His lips are salty with sea-spray, his heart thumping erratically in his chest.

“Pull yourself together,” he mutters. He turns to face Narcissa, who watches him, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You’re always watching over me.” He kisses her parted lips lightly and rolls onto his back with a sigh. “I had a terrible dream.”

He checks his watch, an expensive heirloom passed down through the Malfoy family for generations. He opens it and watches the hand ticking, the sound of it comforting in the still room. 

“Three o’clock in the morning,” he says. “I think I’ll make myself a hot chocolate. Do you remember how Draco used to wake up and ask us to make him hot chocolate to help him sleep?” 

Lucius props himself on his elbow and watches Narcissa who meets his gaze without blinking. Her cheeks have a strange translucency in the moonlight and Lucius resolves to work on that tomorrow. He doesn’t want to think of ghosts and dead things. He wants to turn to find Narcissa exactly as she was when she was living. Tonight, she’s more carefully etched marble than flesh and blood and he finds it makes him angry, a wave of disgust overwhelming him.

“Why can’t you be real?” He shakes her, his words hissing and spitting as he pleads with her to respond. “Answer me. _Answer me_!” 

It’s not long before the heat of his furious rage slips into grief that leaves him choking on the tears he refuses to shed. He cradles Narcissa in his arms, rearranging her delicate nightgown and murmuring his apologies again, and again. He’s never lifted a finger to Narcissa in the past, never wished to hurt her. He can't believe he would allow himself to entertain it tonight, even with Narcissa like this.

“What a loathsome man I’ve become.” He slides his hand over Narcissa’s arm and in the darkness, the shadow from his fingers looks like a bruise.

*

The kettle whistles and Lucius takes his mug from the kitchen cupboard, having found the hot chocolate in the back of the pantry. Its powder is hard and sickly sweet, but he preservers, desperate to taste the familiar, milky warmth that might bring him back to a happier time. There are no house-elves at the Manor anymore. There were none prepared to work in a place haunted by ghosts of the past and it was a battle Lucius didn’t have the energy to fight, quelled by grief and the loss of his high place in wizarding politics.

He gathers his robe around himself and catches sight of his face in the mirror. His eyes are sunken, circled by red-rims and black shadows. His hair is stringy and thin, hanging lank and pale around his white face. He could be a ghost. A shadow of the man he once was, the richness of the black satin of his robes jarring against the pale jut of his collarbone and the sickly pallor of his face. 

He grimaces and turns away, pouring boiling water into the powder at the bottom of his mug. He stirs slowly, the scent of the chocolate soothing.

“I will go to Rodolphus myself at the weekend,” Lucius determines. “Then we can put an end to the madness.”

He wonders if he could find somewhere warm for he and Narcissa—like the house in the South of France they used to keep before the Ministry stripped them of their ability to travel abroad. Perhaps he might be able to plead for leniency on that particular rule. Draco could use something of his influence with Potter to help his father get out of the Manor. Nobody would have to know about the magic Lucius has been practicing. Even as it pricks beneath his skin and leaves even the sweet chocolate tasting bitter, he determines he could leave it behind. He could use his bottled memories to hear Narcissa’s voice again, to feel close to her. 

He did that for weeks after her death. He played his memories on a loop, spending more time with his Pensieve than he did with the people who pretended they knew something of his grief. He convinced Draco to alter his memories just enough to help him remember Narcissa unspoiled, even in death. He knows she didn’t look as though she was sleeping when he found her and when he reaches for that memory in the darkest moment it flickers and spins with the tell-tale signs of something reworked. Lucius doesn't care. It helps that any other image has been banished from his brain—like a word he can’t quite remember, hovering on the tip of his tongue. He wanted Draco to go further, deeper, to change and twist his memory entirely, but the discovery of Narcissa's body was as much as Draco was prepared to take away. Lucius thinks he disappointed his son, by asking. He remembers the twist to Draco’s lips, the way his hand trembled as he pointed his wand at his father’s temple. At one point Lucius saw dark hunger in Draco’s eyes and wondered what other spells his son was minded to cast with Lucius so vulnerable. _Avada Kedavra_ , perhaps. _Crucio_. 

_Forgive me father, for I have sinned_.

Lucius wanders from the kitchen into the vast dining hall where so many family moments were marred by the final year of the war and everything that table came to represent. Bellatrix sits at a chair at the back of the room where Lucius left her. He thought she would appreciate being surrounded by portraits that share her views and sometimes imagines the whispers he hears are the paintings speaking to Bellatrix, to coax her back to life. He imagines she would like to be at the head of the table, and he deliberately ensured she wouldn't even have a seat at it. Unlike his beautiful Narcissa, he arranged her body with no care or tenderness, although she always inexplicably rights herself whenever he goes to finish the last of the spells required before he can deliver her to Rodolphus.

Lucius advances towards Bellatrix in the shadows and slides his free hand around her throat.

“You destroyed my family,” he says, his voice dripping with venom. “The lessons you taught Draco, the way you convinced Narcissa to become part of your madness. You would have danced on my grave if the Dark Lord had killed me when he returned, I know you revelled in being his _pet_ , his favourite. You thought him capable of love. You were wrong. You don’t know true love. You’ll _never_ know what it means.”

Lucius removes his hand from Bella’s throat and gives a snort of disgust at the taunting curve of her smile, the evil he so painstakingly rendered behind her eyes.

“You don’t frighten me,” he spits. “You are nothing.”

When he leaves the room, he can feel her eyes following him.

*

Despite his promises to himself, Lucius finds himself bent over his books again the following day.

He’s so certain he can control it, the darkness that crawls over his skin and lingers in the shadows. 

He spends hours trying to draw words from Narcissa, even as he knows it’s a futile endeavour. It seems worth doing, worth investing time in bringing back the one thing he misses most of all. Narcissa's body is nothing without her conversation and he wants to know what she thinks, what she feels.

It’s late and his candles have burned low when he emerges from his reading. Hot wax pools in circles at the base of them, spilling onto parchment covered in ragged symbols and scribbles which no longer make any sense.

Lucius meets Narcissa’s eyes and in a desperate moment he thinks he hears her whisper his name.

“Darling?” Lucius’ voice catches in his throat and he leans forward, aching to hear her voice again. He wants it so much he would drive himself to madness for it, part of him wonders if he already has. “Did you say something?”

“Be-Bell—” The voice is like Narcissa’s and yet not like Narcissa at all. It’s rusty with death, the raspy words like somebody trying to speak with a mouth full of soil. Even as her lips move they're out of time with the syllables, her limbs trembling with the effort. In a dreamlike moment her hand lifts as if attached to an invisible string, the movement jerky and uncertain. Lucius wonders if he's fallen asleep at his desk, his mind working feverishly as he watches her pale hand curl until one, slender finger points in his direction. Lucius has made Narcissa move before. He’s made her dance with intricate magic, but now his wand is discarded and he's quite certain whatever movements she makes, she makes of her own accord.

“Narcissa?” He leans closer, his whole body hot and eager, his heart beating like drums. In one desperate moment he allows the tears he's battled so hard to contain fall from his eyes. With a wretched sob as he gulps back his emotion, not wanting her to see him like this, cheeks damp like a wimpering child, lips sharp with the taste of his anguish.

“Lucius,” Narcissa breathes, her voice dry like autumn leaves.

“Yes, my love. It’s me. Can you hear me?” Lucius scrunches a piece of parchment in his fist, holding his breath. “Talk to me. _Talk to me_. What are you trying to say?”

“Darling.” Narcissa’s lips move out of sync and her eyes are glassy as if she wants to cry, but can’t. “She’s behind you.”

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> come and say hi on [tumblr](https://writcraft.tumblr.com/)


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